


Devotion

by thrillhaus



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Armitage Hux Has Issues, Betrayal, F/M, Mentioned Kylo Ren, Post-TRoS, general pryde - Freeform, good old brendol, just baddies being baddies, when self-care fails
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-09
Updated: 2020-01-29
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:00:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21727927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thrillhaus/pseuds/thrillhaus
Summary: Armitage Hux needs stress relief. There's only one person he trusts enough to give it to him. She might think quite differently than he thinks, though...Now with post-TROS content. What exactly turns Hux against the Order?
Relationships: Armitage Hux/Phasma
Comments: 8
Kudos: 22





	1. Chapter 1

General Armitage Hux can’t sleep.

It’s not due to ignorance of his duties. He knows he should rest. Tomorrow is the attack on the rebel base, vengeance for the destruction of Starkiller, and he must be at his sharpest. He’s done everything that normally has a relaxing effect—washed himself in the hot water available to him as a senior officer, then arranged himself under the black sheets and blankets of his bunk. 

None of it has worked. He still feels as if he’s back on the dying planet, shivering in his own sweat and covered in that sorcerer's blood. He had found Ren half dead in the snow, slashed and gashed and unfortunately, not dead. The shoddy cult that Snoke and Ren both patronize allows them certain physical powers, but it also restricts them to fighting with beam swords, the one advantage of which is that they self-cauterize. Whoever left the bleeding hole in Ren’s side had the better idea, but it still hadn’t finished the man off.

Thinking of Ren unnerves him, that the man survived all that and still lives. His own body is—it’s not so durable. It’s  _ unruly _ , for a reason which he can’t quite place—

Oh. Oh, it’s  _ that _ .

He wouldn’t have thought himself capable of such neglect.

He knows why this is happening. He’s forgotten to eat, forgotten to drink, in all the triumph and madness of the past days. It’s a mark of shame that he feels this way. The First Order demands self-care among its officers—this is the divide between a leader and a mere soldier, the ability to take care of one’s self. He’s failed in his responsibilities.

Hux pushes his hand underneath the drawstring of his sleep pants, then pulls it away.

It’s even more shameful what he wants to do now.

Sexual feelings have to be repressed—not repressed, perhaps, but redirected, that excess energy properly channeled towards the good of the Order. To that end, everyone in the First Order ingests a suppressant in their food and drink. The troopers receive more than the officers, as too much of the suppressant dulls the critical faculties. The officers need mental energy, while the troopers do not.

Therefore, Hux is susceptible to certain physical reactions that the trooper does not experience. The urge doesn’t occur often, but he sometimes wakes with his organ erect—it has to do with the bladder—and at other times it happens spontaneously. Perhaps it’s a reaction to a person or an event, although he doesn’t collect data on it, as it’s not important.

It had happened in front of his father once, when he was just more than a child, and he certainly hadn’t wanted to engage in coitus with the man. He had been in his father’s office, for one reason or another, and his father had noticed him shuffling in his seat. He had forced him to stand and looked him over. He had expected a punishment, but Brendol Hux simply sat down again and made a note on his datapad.

“Old enough for MMKZ-adone applications.”

Hux hadn’t known what the name meant, but he had to demonstrate that he wasn’t completely ignorant. “I know what it means.”

“And what’s that?”

“I’m old enough to have children.”

“You?” Brendol snorted. “I’d like to see you try. You’d be crushed.”

Hux had realized at that moment that his own father must have experienced the same thing, possibly multiple times. Moreover, he would have engaged with a woman, the maid he’d heard of. She didn’t have a name.

“It must have happened to you, too.”

Brendol had looked at him with a sort of disgusted alarm. “What?” 

“This.” It had gone away, but his father must have known what he was referring to. “Because you had me.”

“Dear  _ bask _ .” Brendol shook his head. “More’s the pity.” He had rolled his eyes and gone back to his reports.

Over the years, Hux had wondered if his father applied the same conditioning to himself on Arkanis as he did to the troopers underneath him. Did his father’s conditioning fail sometimes, as well? Or had he lived differently, and come to regret it?

Hux promised himself not to apply himself in that way with another person, and he’s kept his promise, almost.

He does have lapses. And he has had attempts to engage with others, out of curiosity about the physical pleasure that the act is supposed to engender. He experimented once with an adult trooper, a man, wishing and hoping that something would happen. It didn’t, and the trooper had to be sent to reconditioning. He felt badly afterward, to have wasted the assets of the Order.

He had also experimented with an officer, a woman, younger than himself, who had been caught trading favors with a group of Green Star raiders. He had seen the footage of what she had done with them, and found himself aching, hardly able to calm himself. Against his better judgment, and risking the extreme censure of his father were the man to find out, he had visited her in her cell.

“Do it.”

The woman shook her head in confusion, her dirty hair falling round her face. “Do what?”

“What you did for them.”

He stood there as she paid her attentions, wishing and hoping that something would happen. He left as limp as when he came in, wet with spit and shaking with anger. The woman had been scheduled for execution a few hours later, so there had been no question of waste, but it had still been disappointing.

After that, he had kept his vows for a long time, until he had been troubled by an impulse one day while working on schemata for a speeder powered by Death Star technology. Phasma had been at hand, so, out of convenience more than anything, he had ordered Phasma to aid him with it. It had been surprisingly simple to get her to do so—she has a lack of inhibition that he presumes is the result of a primitive upbringing. She has a steady hand and a good stroke, and he had been surprised, then very pleased, to feel himself spring to life underneath her ministrations.

As Phasma is often in his company, he’s now undergone this procedure several times.

He doesn’t know why he trusts her so implicitly. Perhaps it’s because of the business with his father—one has to have a certain intimacy to plot murder, after all. It could simply be familiarity. Ever since they’ve met, she’s always been there at his side, as his father had had the treacherous Cardinal at his. 

He’s done better in that aspect of his life than his father, at least. Phasma is loyal and would never do anything to hurt him.

Hux knows that he should take care of this himself, but he suddenly rather wants Phasma, and there’s nothing stopping him from doing as he pleases. He is a general, after all.

He reaches over to the terminal by the side of his bunk, swipes in his security code, and writes out a message to the captain. A request to meet in his quarters. An order, really--nothing he does is ever really a request--but he words it politely, as it’s out of the regular sequence of events.

He watches the terminal for the reply. Time is almost always a constant, of course, but it seems slow when one is supposed to be resting, and it stretches slower now as he waits for the blink of a reply. Perhaps she won’t--but she always does. He remembers speaking to her earlier in the day, when she had returned in triumph from catching the traitor who had let down the base’s shields.  _ Nothing could impede your devotion, Phasma. _

The terminal screen flashes yellow. Hux allows a smile to no one before he realizes that he’s still in his sleepwear, which Phasma, despite their familiarity, has never seen. It doesn’t show him to his best advantage, and besides, the practice might be inefficient if done in different garb. He has time to put on his undergarments at the least before Phasma arrives, although perhaps his full uniform would be best, for dignity’s sake, and for warmth; the outer areas of the body are most delicate, he remembers, and most affected by heat and cold. He has approximately seven and a half minutes to arrange his appearance, calculating the distance between his and Phasma’s quarters and taking into account the hour, although he doubts that anything could hamper the captain’s alertness.

Hux rises to his feet--the floor is cold as always, he should remember his socks--and begins to dress for his assignation.


	2. Chapter 2

Captain Phasma thinks about the possibilities that the next few hours hold as she makes her way through the halls of the _Finalizer’s_ residence quarters. Most of these possibilities are bad. 

She’s received an urgent message from General Hux. _Come to my quarters, immediately._ She had donned her armor, every piece, as she always does, then left the safety of her rooms.

It has to be about the shields. The old man, his beast, and FN-2187 should have killed her, but they must have had other priorities. Instead, they had placed her in a garbage disposal, which had excited them very much but actually had been very easy to escape. Afterwards, she had simply made her way off the planet, tracked down the last man to have touched the shield controls, framed him, and returned to the fleet. It just had all been too easy. Not the mission itself, which had entailed some complications, but Hux’s acceptance of her story. After all, she had no body to bring back. Perhaps Hux had developed suspicions about her involvement. 

Or worse, perhaps one of the witnesses to her treason had managed to contact Hux. The beast didn’t seem to be able to talk, but the old man and FN-2187 would know what she had done. She had heard a rumor that the old man had died, but FN-2187 was still a loose end. The stormtrooper could have contacted Hux and told him what he had seen. FN-2187 is soft, and he likely wouldn’t risk the safety of his newfound rabble friends by placing a traceable comm, but he’s also unpredictable. 

She could very well be walking to her doom.

Phasma keeps her finger curled round her blaster trigger as the doors to Hux’s quarters open. The lights are low, but Phasma can make out Hux, seated at the desk at the end of his vestibule. He’s alone, and his hands are empty. This is a good sign, but it proves nothing. He has something up his sleeve—it’s not just words with him, there’s a blade there. She can wrestle it from him, but he might have poison on him as well. 

“General?”

“Approach.”

Armitage looks haggard, worse than he did after she first returned to the fleet. Even in the poor light she detects the shadows under his eyes. His hair is different, too, as if he hasn’t had time to properly part it. 

“Phasma, I feel--” The blood is rising in his thin face. “I feel unquiet.” He passes his left hand across his face, fingers worrying at his lips and at the stubble on his chin. His right hand is draped across his lap. 

“About what, sir?” He doesn’t seem angry, or suspicious of her. Perhaps Hux is unnerved by the loss of Starkiller. He might want to speak with her about contingency plans, or about the next day’s attack. It’s strange that he would call at this hour of the night, though. They have a working rapport that should make such sleep-cycle calls unnecessary. She merely has to hear his orders and she will know how to carry them out.

Hux lifts the corner of his tunic and rubs his hand against his crotch.

Oh. So this is what he’s asking for.

Hux likes to be masturbated as a part of his work routine. It _is_ very routine, as they follow a precise number of steps each time. Hux tucks his tunic into his belt, undoes his jodhpurs, and pulls through the opening of his regulation shorts. Then he opens his desk drawer and unscrews a jar of antichafing armor salve. Phasma applies one swipe of the salve to her left hand, then bends down and allows to rut into her hand until he comes. Afterwards, he quickly cleans himself and calls a sanitary droid to steam and wash his rug and clean any affected furniture. Then he dismisses her, although he allows her to wash her hands in his fresher before she goes. 

When Phasma leaves, Hux always looks just the same as when she enters—head down over his desk, eyes on his documents. His hair doesn’t even crack in its gel. The only difference is that the room smells like the droid’s cleaning solution.

Phasma doesn’t object to this routine. It’s strange that he wants to participate in it now, though, when he’s not working. 

The obvious emotion to feel would be relief. She’s not about to be executed for treason. Hux merely wants her there as an outlet. And Phasma does feel relief, but it’s mixed with annoyance. That he’d call her for this, break her own rest for something so trivial. He presumably thinks his relaxation is much more valuable than her own.

Hux’s habits are nothing if not predictable, though. As soon as she places her hand on his cock, he stiffens and huffs, rolling his hips. It’s all very precise. One of the reasons that Phasma allows this routine is that she’s still able to think about her routines and tasks. However, the difference in tonight’s timing has broken her concentration. Her thoughts drift to another appointment she’d had with this family--the last time she’d seen Brendol Hux. 

The elder Hux had summoned her after an absence of seven cycles, during which he had been observing a new acquisition of Snoke’s, the leader of a pack of mystic knights. Phasma remembers her curiosity about the new member of the Order. Perhaps Brendol wanted her to demonstrate her skills against him. She was more than ready.

However, when she had arrived, Brendol had merely looked her up and down, then snorted. He looked disappointed, although she’d done nothing wrong. 

“Take off your helmet.”

That had been a surprise. Phasma never took off her helmet in the presence of either the father or the son. She knew that Brendol sometimes spoke to Cardinal face to face, but he enjoyed the reflection of her shining armor--he had chuckled when he first saw it, and praised her for her ingenuity. Armitage seemed to think that the armor _was_ her face.

“I told you, take off your helmet! Are you slipping?” 

“No, sir.” She undid the hydraulic clasps, then looked him straight in his bloodshot eyes. What did he have to be so proud of? His skin was wrinkled, mottled with dark spots. He smelled, and it permeated his office--the odor of alcohol, and something in his sweat. He was old and unhealthy. 

Brendol’s expression didn’t change. “You may sit.”

Phasma sat. 

“So you and my son are lovers.”

“No, sir.” The answer was automatic, before she even realized what routine Brendol was referring to. 

“Don’t try to lie to me. I see what you do.” Brendol grunted. “I still have eyes on this ship, you know.”

Phasma hadn’t lied. She had never thought of it that way herself. What she did to Armitage physically was meant to calm him. Phasma had seen her mother do it to her brother, when he was young and squalling, and she had practiced it herself, once or twice, before Kel grew old enough to have the wits not to cry. Armitage Hux was not her friend, or her lover, and she was certain that he felt the same way about her. 

“Do as you please. I don’t want to know more about it.” The older Hux stared through her, as if there was something behind her that only he could see. 

“I know what you two are up to behind my back. You want me dead and gone.”

“Sir, I don’t.” But she did, she knew that at that very second. Armitage had hinted at it before, at how tired he was of the old ways, of incompetence, of demented routine. “I would never be so disloyal.” 

“You, a loyal heart? Spare me.” Brendol picked up a glass filled to the brim with brown liquid, brought it to his lips. 

“He won’t shoot me face to face. I know that. So don’t try it.” Half the contents of the glass disappeared down Brendol’s throat. “Know that I have every possible poison in the galaxy catalogued in the First Order’s databases. I have orders for a full autopsy in case of my untimely demise.” 

Brendol brought the glass to his lips again. Phasma remembers the empty bottle sitting on his desk. “You will be caught.” 

Phasma would _never_ be caught. If this old drunk thought he could outwit her--he thought he had the power to destroy everything, planets, even his own children! It had taken all of her will not to let her thoughts show on her face. She must have sneered, must have let _something_ show, but Brendol was lost in his own internal vision.

“What I saw today was amazing. I sought for years to create that sort of power--but it’s true, it can only be gifted through the force. And to think it went to Snoke… Well.” Brendol fiddled with the ring on his left pinky. Phasma watched as the glossy black stone, carved with an old imperial symbol, caught the light, as the gold of the band cut into the swollen flesh of Brendol’s finger.

They sat there in silence for a while, Brendol examining his ring, until he dismissed her. She had put her helmet back on and was almost out the door when Brendol called her back.

“Phasma,” he had said. “I thought you were an intelligent woman.” 

Phasma didn’t know what that had to do with anything. “Thank you, sir.”

“I’ll let you know this. I hope you understand this properly.” He suddenly smiled, his yellow teeth rotting in his face. “And Armitage should know it too. In fact, tell Armitage something from me. Whenever you like.” 

“Of course, sir.”

“Even if he succeeds in killing me, he’ll never be his own master. There’ll just be another to rule over him. It’s nature’s way. He’s weak.”

When she left him, he was mumbling into his glass. “Good stars. If that had been my own son… what we could have done together.”

Phasma never told Armitage. A cycle-month later, they had poisoned Brendol with a golden beetle. No one could tell what it was, except Brendol. Phasma wondered if he had figured it out, and if he was proud of her before he died. Probably not. It didn’t matter.

Her wrist is beginning to hurt from the angle. Armitage makes a high little sound. It means he’s almost done, and in a moment he shoots into her hand. His breathing slows, and his eyelashes flutter in the low light. 

Phasma can almost hear Brendol’s voice rasping in her ear. “You’re an intelligent woman.” 

There hadn’t been a choice. It was either Brendol or Armitage, and Brendol was old and sick and Armitage was young and healthy. What had he expected from her? That she would--

She’s misremembered. That’s not what he said. _I_ thought _you were an intelligent woman._ Those were the words.

He had expected her to take Hux’s place. _He’ll always have a master._ He had expected her to kill _Armitage_ , too.

And yet here she was. Still obeying Armitage’s orders. Frightened that he would condemn her for treason. Catering to his every need--she thinks that she knows better, but anyone who saw her now would think that she _loved_ him.

Phasma has never been more grateful for her helmet.

“Oh, Phasma.” Hux stretches, his toes curling in his socks. The familiar beep-beep of the cleaning droid sounds from another chamber. 

Phasma waits to be dismissed. 

Armitage’s hand suddenly presses against hers. She almost reacts in defense, out of instinct. It takes a moment to register that he’s trying to hold her hand.

Phasma’s duties to the First Order often require physical contact, ranging from with cadets in training to a dueling, impatient Kylo Ren. But she’s never touched any part of Armitage other than his cock. 

His hand is small, and his fingers are fragile within his glove.The leather is cool against her palm, which is still warm and sticky from the salve.

“Thank you, Phasma.” Hux is falling asleep, his jodhpurs still around his knees. He stirs, attempting to rouse himself, and turns to her with a weak smile on his face.

Phasma wonders if he sees his own face, reflected in her armor, or if he thinks that he’s seeing through to something deeper underneath.

She could kill him right now, where he stands. Walk out of here with his head in her hands.

But what would it matter now? She had been stupid, let the moment pass. Snoke is in power now, and Ren, and--yes--Armitage Hux. She’ll forever be his lackey.

She can almost see Brendol’s ghost, hear his laughter ringing out from the lands of the dead. _Too late!_

The mood passes. She’s still the master of thousands of men, still a great warrior, still herself. And whatever others might think if they saw her, she knows the truth. She has love in her heart for no one.

“Get up, Armitage.” She pulls on his hand, like a sleepy child’s, but she’s overestimated his strength, and he almost falls off the chair. 

His expression immediately changes to a sneer, and he pulls away from her, leaving her hand cold. “I’ll take care of myself from now on, Captain Phasma. You’re dismissed.”

He looks injured somehow, even though he couldn’t have been seriously hurt. Phasma feels the unworthy urge to ask what she’s done wrong, and swiftly cuts off that urge without mercy, as she would the head of a sloppy cadet or a dying underling. _Weak._

She assumes that she still has leave to wash her hands before she goes, as per their usual ritual. She watches through the fresher doorway as Hux pulls his jodhpurs back up, then makes his way into his sleeping chamber, a garter trailing against the floor. 

He doesn’t look back at her, and a gleaming figure makes her way out into the halls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> RIP Brendol Hux, the second-most disappointed father in Star Wars canon, right behind George R. Binks (https://imgur.com/gallery/iwOg6).


	3. Chapter 3

Armitage Hux is almost the same man he used to be. 

He’s always neat, always the picture of order, no matter his circumstances. He knows this, so he examines the parts of himself that the tiny fresher mirror has room to reflect. He certainly looks surprisingly similar to before, before Crait, before Batuu, before the various events that have not gone to his advantage. Nothing has affected him physically. The same pale eyes, the same high cheekbones, the same neat hair and neat hairline, not receding, like some failed old man’s. Still young enough. 

He sniffs the seams of his tunic before he puts it on, then adjusts his collar, running his finger underneath before heading out the door for a meeting of Supreme Leader’s high council. He hasn’t been properly clean for a handful of cycles now. The laundry droids on the  _ Steadfast  _ aren’t half as efficient as the ones he had personally designed for the  _ Finalizer  _ and the  _ Supremacy _ , and the sanitary amenities in the officers’ quarters are poorly equipped. Perhaps the commanding officer’s berth has running water. He won’t humiliate himself by asking. 

As he turns into the hallway leading to the council’s meeting room, he’s greeted by more filth--a long, reddish brown smear on the facing wall. Blood, or dirt. It’s probably the leavings of the Knights of Ren. Hux despises them. They smell like rot and they track grime wherever they go. Both the troops and droids are too wary of the knights’ wrath to do a proper job of cleaning up after them, and his fellow officers are disinterested in maintaining the proper standards. 

Hux also despises his fellow officers. After Ren’s failure at Batuu, Hux is no longer the overall commander of the First Order’s forces. However, he is still a high-ranking member of the officer corps, and the men and women that Pryde surrounds himself with are supposed to be his equals, at the very least, but they’re not. They’re inefficient and dangerous. General Engell, who serves as Captain Phasma’s replacement, is the worst--no, correction, the  _ second  _ worst. She’s devoted to Ren and the idea of raising up an army influenced by his gibberish views of power. Her underling, Aglenix, is obsessed with skull size and wastes half the new recruits they bring by culling them as inferior stock, not that anyone seems concerned with that. 

The worst of all of them is his new superior, Pryde. Hux knows better than to let himself complain about Pryde or disrespect him to his face. Their relations are cold, but correct. However, the other officers, even those who served under Hux in the past, seem enamored of Pryde. Hux learns new things about the older man every day. Pryde used to ride purpose-bred steeds on Alsakan and hunt with boola hounds. Pryde has a garden of rare carnivorous plants that he’s had transported from ship to ship since the days of the Empire. Pryde knew Wilhuff Tarkin--no, he was Tarkin’s favorite protege! These stories all seem unlikely, but the deluge of them seems unlikely to be dammed in the near future.

Hux is also learning new things about himself. Pryde had been a friend of his father’s and his father’s wife, although the general chaos after the fall of the Empire meant that they had had little personal contact afterwards. Hux hardly remembers Pryde, but Pryde seems to remember a great deal about him. Once, when Hux was trying to put across a point about a sorely needed reform in quaalenium supply, Pryde cut him off.

“I remember you trying to lead a company in short pants.” Pryde had smiled, the first time and only time he’s ever done so in Hux’s presence. “Quite enthusiastic. Not concerned about quaalenium then.”

The other officers had smiled back, even the ones close to Hux’s age, even Aglenix, who, Hux had realized, is actually younger than he is. Hux hates Aglenix. 

But, as he enters the meeting room and seats himself around the overlong table, Hux is certain that he still hates Supreme Leader Ren the most. 

He hates Ren for what he  _ is _ . The man is juvenile, overmuscled, and stupid, in thrall to an dangerous ideology and to his own desires. He also hates Ren for what he  _ does _ . Ren regularly uses his witchcraft for petty humiliation, snide turns of officers’ caps, choking, invisible slaps. After the events at Crait, Hux thought that perhaps took Ren a special interest in his punishment, was especially irked by an equal’s daring to contradict him. The idea had been attractive, somehow--not that Ren’s attention in and of itself interested him, he wouldn’t admit  _ that _ , but power’s attention. That he was still thought of as a potent threat. 

Over time, though, it’s become plain that Ren tends to do it to anyone who refuses to flatter him. It’s just the way the man is. The target doesn’t matter, just the expression of emotion.

It’s happening now. “I want them found!” Ren is expounding from his throne at the end of the table, which is set higher than the other seat, as if he’s a king or a baby. Ren hasn’t repaired his helmet, so now everyone can see his face, speckled with moles and stubble, and hear the petulance in his natural voice. “I  _ need  _ the elimination of the Resistance. By whatever means.”

There are other problems than the immediate destruction of Ren’s personal enemies. Quaalenium production is down in Busca, and Corellia and its satellite sisters are almost in revolt. But Hux will hold his tongue. He’s outlasted others and he’ll outlast Ren as well. He hasn’t quite figured out how, but there must and there will be a way.

It will be more difficult now. First, because he’s been outranked; second, because he’s lacking an ally. Phasma perished during the terror attack on the Supremacy. Nothing was ever found of her body except a few scraps of her armor, and in the chaos afterwards there was never anything close to a proper memorial ceremony. Ren had never been close to Phasma, and anyway in the immediate aftermath he had transferred all his attention to finding mystic artifacts and carousing with his knights. 

Hux misses Phasma. On a practical level, she provided an aura of physical menace that he now sorely lacks. On an emotional level--they had never been lovers, of course, or really even friends--there could never be such a relationship between a superior and an underling. They had understood each other. He’d had companionship. 

“I want all our resources on finding her. Them. All of them. Now.”

Ren seems to have found and lost companionship as well, not with a fellow soldier but with that little scavenger bitch. He’s obsessed with finding her, making him bend to her will; he’s been rejected. Good. He deserves it, Hux thinks. 

_ I had something, and I lost it, too. But you don’t see me acting a fool about it. _

He does wish he could tell someone, though. He’s not exactly sure whom he could tell, or what he could actually tell them, but it would be pleasant to have a neutral sounding board, a sort of new Phasma. He was given the remains of Phasma’s helmet after the battle at Crait, as he was the the designated keeper of her effects, the closest thing to a next of kin, he supposes. He keeps it in his wardrobe, next to his boots, as he considers it a reasonably sized memento. He’s rather glad he has it, all things considered, as his personal effects have been diminished over time with his moves to smaller and smaller quarters. 

“Of course, Supreme Leader. I’ll redouble our efforts to find the ancient regime.”

Ren has gotten it into his head that there is another Empire in the unknown regions of space, complete with a set of ancient, powerful ships and warriors ready to serve his every need. Pryde encourages this idea, and now officers’ meetings have devolved into endless discussion about how to obtain information leading to these ghost resources, which will lead him to his family members and his errant. At first, Hux thought that the entire concept was insane, as naturally Snoke would have shared information on an entire other imperial fleet with Hux. Now, he’s slightly unsure, but he does wish that they would concentrate on the affairs of the existing universe.

“Before we turn to those important matters,” Engell drones, “our agenda today includes improvements to our training program. We have had several instances of disobedience among the lower ranks of stormtroopers, and after some consideration I think it is necessary to revert the last junior cohorts and pursue a totally fresh recruitment program on Kijimi.”

Reversion! That’s an entire ship’s worth of soldiers! Impossible. “I see no reason for these changes. These soldiers are almost entirely trained.” 

“I know that you are attached to your methods, General. But I must say--”

“You will say, you mean--” He regrets the words the second they leave his mouth, as it gives Pryde, insufferable Pryde, the opportunity for a scolding.

“You’re out of turn, Hux.”

Engell resets herself in the exact same place in her little speech, with the exact same tone in her voice, as if she’s a malfunctioning droid. He’d love to give her a reset--a good smack across her withered face. “I must say that the methods of Captain Phasma were sometimes primitive--”

“Primitive!” That’s too much to bear. “Phasma ran an efficient training program that produced loyal and discerning soldiers.”

“Discerning?” Pryde clips his way back into the conversation.

“Of course.” He never would have needed to even speak these words before. No one would have contradicted him. But now the other officers’ faces don’t change. “Phasma was one of our finest officers.” It’s like yelling into a vacuum. 

“You needn’t argue on behalf of a dead woman.” Pryde interjects. “Especially one whose loyalty to the Order was questionable.”

“What?” 

Pryde’s lips droop further into their natural sneer. “There’s some evidence that Captain Phasma was behind the lowering of the shields on Starkiller.”

“Outrageous.” The purest sort of nonsense--the worst insult. Perhaps it’s imagination, but even Ren looks slighted. Or perhaps he’s just engaged in something outside his own personal matters, for once. “Phasma  _ executed  _ the traitor. A Lieutenant Sol Rivas.”

“Son of Maris Rivas. I fought with him at Batarys. A shame.” Oh, so he knew the man, or the man’s father. Or says he does. Pryde doesn’t look like he’s lying, or as if he’s sad about losing a friend, although he never looks like anything at all. 

“I’d like to clear that man’s name. We’ve found evidence of overwriting at K-5-Quadra station. Which is where Phasma would have been at the time.”

Perhaps this is an ambush. Perhaps this has been planned. Hux begins to sweat. He dislikes that this happens, and that his dislike of it makes the reaction stronger. It prickles in his armpits, he can feel it collect in the fabric of his undershirt, where it will congeal and leave yellow stains that the inefficient droids of the  _ Steadfast  _ won’t ever get out. 

“Nonsense.” 

“You can see the evidence here.” Pryde taps his datapad, and a projection springs into the air. A dull list, and easy to recognize--but there is an anomaly that even an average officer can comprehend, and possibly even a below-average officer, as Aglenix emits a dramatic “ah.”

“It was probably an attempt at concealment. Phasma would have let down the shields in response to a personal threat, instead of bothering to defend her post. The whole thing was rather poorly done--the attempt should have been detected.” Pryde’s shoulders twitch. “Of course, responsibility ultimately lies with Phasma’s superior.”

Pryde’s shoulders twitch again. It’s either a very well smothered laugh or Pryde is developing palsy. Likely the former; not enough luck for the latter. 

_ Oh, Phasma.  _ Hux feels strange, as if something dreadful has happened to him but he can’t sense it yet. There should be tangible evidence that something is wrong--fire, sirens, sensors--but there’s nothing to fix. What is one to say in this sort of situation? 

A beam of red light bursts through the projection. Ren looms above, his saber lit. 

“Do our plans founder on the innocence or guilt of a single dead stormtrooper? What’s done is done.”

Pryde bows his head. “You are correct, Supreme Leader. Were Phasma still alive, her treason would be a problem requiring immediate attention. But we can concentrate on more pressing issues. For now.” 

_ Saved by Ren. How disgusting. _

The rest of the meeting is agony. Immediately afterwards, Hux sets his status to ill. He isn’t, technically, but the engineering he has to do is directly under Pryde’s beady eye and he can’t stand it, not now. If he’ll break, he’ll do it in private.

Hux keeps a bottle of  _ toskari  _ in his quarters. It’s absolutely unpalatable, but like Phasma’s helmet, it’s easy to transport between accommodations, and its properties enhance the antistims he sometimes takes to aid his rest. As soon as the door is safely closed behind him, he tips the bottle to his lips.

The alcohol burns, and it frees his thought. It’s impossible! That Phasma would do something so atrocious! She hadn’t been there, hadn’t--but why would she have broken protocol after the attack? She said she was after Rivas, but--if she had been at that station? Which would have been on her patrol, he remembers. Why is he remembering this now? It’s not any use to him.

And if so--Why would she do it? Her life had been threatened, perhaps, but certainly she would have stayed loyal to him. Had she simply held the line--the whole fate of the galaxy would have been different. He would be the leader now, the master of the galaxy, and Ren in his proper place, grovelling at his feet. Perhaps Phasma would have perished, but she should have known her place! 

Hux recalls the night afterwards, how he’d wanted Phasma in his rooms, not suspecting a thing. He let her touch him! That wasn’t the worst of it, he remembers that he put his hand in hers, how warm it was. It was a sweet memory, or he supposes it was, he doesn’t have many of them. He thinks of it--thought of it--sometimes when he sleeps alone, in his small bed. He’ll hold one hand in the other and pretend she’s still there with him. He would have asked her again, had she lived--but no, he couldn’t have--he’s been so  _ stupid _ \--

Hux fumbles around in his wardrobe, knocking over his boots. He’s a bit drunker than he thought, but what of it? There it is--he drags out Phasma’s helmet and sets it on the floor. 

_ You little cunt. I’ll show you what I think of you.  _

He pulls out his blaster and fires.

Suddenly there’s a terrible pain in his arm.  _ Oh. _

He’d forgotten how strong her armor was, that it was meant to reflect bolts. He’s never been wounded before, not properly. If he had aimed right, it wouldn’t just be his arm.

Hux sits down on his bed, very carefully, and attempts to rip his tunic sleeve at the gash. It won’t tear, it’s too well made. It’s cold in these quarters. It’s not sanitary, but his greatcoat will do. He’ll wash it later--he has another one--he must have another one. He presses the sleeve against the bleeding and waits for it to stop.

He can’t stop shaking. Perhaps he’s going into shock--but no, a little wound like this wouldn’t have such an effect, and besides he can’t go to the medical rooms because he’s crying and he can’t be seen like this. He places his free hand atop his other shoulder, arms crossed, even though it hurts. Someone or something must have done this for him, once upon a time, but now he must do it himself, he thinks, rocking back and forth. He can feel the blood soaking through his coat, turning the fabric to muck against his fingers. It won’t wash out. 

Hasn’t he been loyal? He’s been so good--not like childish, stupid Ren--and yet no one is there for him. Even Ren’s girl, spiteful as she may be, is still alive. Hux imagines all the officers in the meeting room delivering that girl to Ren.  _ We’ve done this for you, my lord! We wouldn’t want  _ you  _ to be alone.  _

They don’t care for him. None of them ever did. He’s given everything he had to them and they’ve thrown it in his face, just to serve themselves and that monster of a man, the most self serving of all of them. They’ll put the girl into his arms, he’ll have everything he wants, he’ll have something to hold him if he wants, something to--he forgets exactly what the term is-- 

A hug, that’s what the position is called. He remembers a teasing, disgusting voice. General--what a name. Sometimes he hears that voice when he sleeps, as if it’s calling him to something, although he won’t allow himself to dwell on what it might be. How he wakes up after he hears it--

It’s easier to think of those terrorists as a collective, as a hive. They don’t respect him, but they don’t respect Ren, either. One is the same as another, to them. They could very easily take down--

Hux blinks a few times, and the tiny room swims in and out of focus. He could do that, if he wanted. It would be so easy, to find a contact, to leak information to them, to put a target on Pryde’s back. On Ren’s back.

It would be treason.

_ And I’d be the last of us to commit it.  _

There’s still some  _ toskari _ left. Hux swallows until the bottle is emptied, the excess running down his chin. He types something into his datapad, concentrating on the outward address so that it’s absolutely correct, then stabs at the release button with his finger. The screen flashes for a second, then it’s done.

He collapses onto his side, pulls the blankets over his head. 

Wakes up to several small disasters. He doesn’t know what time it is. He’s wounded. His bladder aches. His mouth is dry and stinking. Oh, and he’s also committed treason.

Most of these things can be rectified. His shift hasn’t started yet, so the time doesn’t matter. His wound is more superficial than he first had thought. His fresher, substandard as it is, helps with the rest.

The treason is a different matter. He picks up his datapad, which is blinking orange.

_ return to return to return to return to _

He’s sent it to a dead address. To Phasma. 

Stars, what a relief. Or it should be. He should feel better. He doesn’t. He’s safe for now, safe to the tender mercies of Pryde and Engell and the rest. And to Ren, Ren, Kylo Ren who has everything. Who’s won the game, or so Ren thinks. 

Hux deletes Phasma’s address from his datapad. He then rewrites the message and prepares an encrypted channel. It’s cleverly done--the person he has in mind will take his bait, he’s sure. He’s almost sober and he’s in his right mind now. He’s almost absolutely sure of it when he sends the message, and afterwards, when he peels off his gloves, squeezing his hands together for warmth, not thinking of anyone he might have once thought of before, might have cared for at all. There was nothing there, ever. Nothing. And there’ll be nothing for any of the rest of them, he’ll make sure of that.

_ You’ll lose too, Kylo Ren. _


End file.
